


The Society Pages

by firstiwasliketheniwaslike



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms, Sherlock Holmes - Arthur Conan Doyle
Genre: Bare Knuckle Boxing, Eventual Smut, Journalist John, M/M, New York AU, late 1800s early 1900s setting
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-01-31
Updated: 2016-05-17
Packaged: 2018-05-17 08:49:29
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 3
Words: 5,015
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5862487
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/firstiwasliketheniwaslike/pseuds/firstiwasliketheniwaslike
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Recently returned from the Spanish-American War, too injured to practice medicine, Doctor John Watson has taken up a position as a journalist for The New York Herald. Typically a crime reporter, covering the working class, John is tapped to cover a piece for the society page. He must don a tux and attend an upscale fundraiser with the highest of society. It is here he meets the enigmatic Sherlock Holmes, who shows him that his investigative reports have only scratched the surface of truth. Together they will unravel a devious plan to keep the working man down. But will their budding relationship get in the way of truth and justice?</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. The Fundraiser

“I look like a penguin.”

John stared at himself in the mirror, displeased.

“Pish posh!” Admonished his editor, Sarah. “You look smashing. Besides, the event is white tie.”

John tugged gently at his waistcoat and ran his hand down the tails of his jacket. The pants were too high in his opinion, adding to the flightless-bird look. His hair was slicked back and parted sharply at the side, the blond nearly as white as his bow tie. His mustache elegantly waxed, combed, and curled. He looked rich. He felt ridiculous.

“This is a woman’s job.” He grumbled.

John, nor any other male reporter for that matter, wrote for the society pages. He was used to the crime beat, the dregs of society, and the ills of the poor. He felt at home amongst them. Their stories, their plight, were more important than the latest debutant ball or insipid socialite party, according to John.

It was the rich and powerful, the ones featured in the society pages, who held the lower classes in bonds. They created misery, profiting off the hard labor and sweat of the working class who watched their children starve. As a doctor, John couldn’t stand to see human life treated with such disregard.

“And what is wrong with a woman’s job?” Sarah fixed him with a level stare. John’s ears turned red with embarrassment.

“Nothing, Sarah. I’m sorry. I just don’t think I can do this.”

John knew it had been a feeble criticism. He had worked alongside female nurses in the U.S. Navy. They were brave, intelligent, and hard working. But the fact of the matter was that this _was_ typically a woman’s job and John was itching to get out of it.

He had been called upon to attend a fundraiser put on by one Miss Irene Adler, fiancé to some rich lawyer. Several of the women in the society department had been chomping at the bit to attend this event, but in the end Sarah chose John.

John had been writing a series of reports on a rash of suicides among working class men. These deaths often saw widows and orphans sent to the almshouses. He had been to a few of these establishments himself. They stunk of human excrement and rotten flesh. He had seen the bodies of babies and the elderly thrown onto a cart for disposal. He had watched as young women picked apart rope until their fingers bled. Men dangling from a wall in chains. All for a roof and two small meals a day. 

The event tonight was a fundraiser for these almshouses. Sarah thought that, since John was particularly acquainted with the cause at hand, he would be the perfect candidate to engage the hostess and benefactors of the night. At least that was how she pitched the idea to John.

John wasn't convinced. He wanted less than nothing to do with these people who first created plight, then basked in the adulation charitable giving brought. John had no intention of writing the standard shallow who's-who commentary. If he was going to be forced to write this article he was going to do it his way.

What John, and all other male journalists, failed to understand was that female journalists did not relish this style of writing any more than they did. If women were ever to put more than a shallowly scandalous spin on a story, if they were ever to report on more than who showed up and spoke to whom, they would be exiled from attendance at future parties, effectively ending their journalistic careers.

As the only female editor at _The New York Herald_ , Sarah knew this all too well. But she wanted her section to have more substance. So she tapped John, whose gender guarded his social standing and employment.

“You can do this John.” She spun him away from the mirror to face her.

She was dressed in a smart, plane navy blue day dress with a slight frill at the collar. Small wire framed spectacles rested delicately on her nose. Her hands were cleaned of their usual smudged ink. She had always difficulty keeping her hands off the lead, but she was not about to get ink on the loaned tux John was wearing tonight. A bit of ink was, however, smudged on her cheek. It made John smile.

“These people _want_ to be reported on. That is how the rich work. If you don’t write about them then no one will know they were at the event. They will be falling all over you. The women will be captivated by your devilish good looks—” He blushed at this. “—and the men will want to tell you all about their latest business ventures and how they will make their next million.”

She gave John a reassuring squeeze of the shoulders and he sighed heavily.

 

***

When he walked into the party he was struck dumb. The ballroom of the house was crusted with crystal light fixtures, the largest of which a gold plated chandelier that dripped heavily from the middle of the room. The furniture was plush velvet and silk. The wall paper intricately patterned and the art work elegantly framed. A string quartet played in the corner. Servers in black and white carried silver trays to and fro.

John gripped his cane— no not his, it was the loaner cane to match the tux— and entered the fray.

Within two seconds he was approached by a woman dressed in a full silk ball gown with intricate silver detailing. _Is that brocade_ , John wondered. He wasn’t sure about all the proper fashion terms he was supposed to be reporting on. Her hair was raven black and gathered delicately on the top of her head in a crown of curls. Her lips painted bright red, a rather shocking accessory for a woman of her standing.

“You must be Doctor Watson. I am Irene Adler. It is a pleasure to have you at our little event.”

She extended her gloved hand. John grasped it and kissed it lightly. Miss Adler hooked her arm in his and lead John around the room. It was as if she could sense his nervousness and was set on putting him at ease. She spoke in a low voice, naming all the attendants and their stations.

There was Dr. Royalt, old but waning money. She didn’t expect much out of him that evening. Duke Ormestein, the future king of Bohemia. There was Sir Charles Baskerville of England, who was baronet to the Baskerville estate. Emilia and Gunnero Lucca, new money. Baron Adelbert Gruner and his lady companion Violet de Merville. And Mycroft Holmes, chief adviser to the mayor. He practically ran New York.

John’s head was spinning. He couldn’t possibly remember everyone. The whole time she escorted him about the room she kept a genial smile on her face. She ended the tour by leaving John in the company of one Doctor Stapleton.

“Your editor informed me that you were once been a doctor. I bet you two have a lot to talk about.”

She curtsied slightly and was off.

John gave the other doctor a tight smile, quickly grabbing a glass of Champaign off a passing tray. He drank it down in one gulp.

Fortunately the man was not too unpleasant to speak with. He listened politely as the man pontificated on the nitty gritty of private practice and the intricacies of modern day surgical advancements. John weighed in here and there, resolutely avoiding mention of his military service. It often prompted questions he would rather not answer. 

After conversing with Stapelton for a while, John was approached by a small group of men anxious to talk business, just as Sarah had said. Ladies with their escorts approached him to introduce themselves. Some inquired about a dance, but John simply glanced at his cane and gave a resigned smile.

By mid-evening it seemed as though he had met or conversed with nearly everyone. His mind was spinning with names and ventures and business deals and pledges of support. Reminding himself that he had work to do and a story to write he looked around for a quiet corner to write down some of his thoughts.

He spied a large ornate set of French doors leading out to a balcony. 

 _Perfect_ , he thought.

He shuffled quickly outside before he could be captured in conversation by anyone else as the quartet struck up a tune and people moved to the dance floor. To his relief the balcony was empty. Leaning against the banister, he took out a pad of paper and pen from his coat pocket and peered out over the city. He sighed deeply.

It was home. John had grown up in this city, the son of a middle class family, educated in medicine at University of the City of New York. It had been the bravery and service of the university's famous alumni Major James Sholto, noted Civil War surgeon, that prompted John to enlist.

“Cuba or the Philippines?”

John turned suddenly at the sound of a deep voice. He would have missed the figure in the shadows all together if it hadn’t been for the bright red glow of a pipe being lit.

“Beg your pardon.” John straightened his posture, trying to affect a confident air.

The figure pushed away from its position against the wall, shaking the match in his hand before throwing it to the ground. This was a man John had not met, or even seen, this evening.

He was tall and lean. On _him_ the tales and collars of the white tie apparel did not look garish and squatty. His tux cut a strong figure, curving in at his waist, sharpening his shoulders. His long pale neck perfectly complemented the cut of his shirt collar. A crisp white square peeked out of his breast pocket.

John felt his pulse quicken and his mouth water.

The man stalked toward him slowly, puffing on his pipe, wisps of smoke curling around his slick black hair.

“Which was it? Cuba or the Philippines?”

John’s mind stumbled. Unable to think of anything else to say, he gave the truth.

“Cuba, but how did you know—”

“I didn’t know I saw.” His voice was impossibly deep.

John gripped his cane tighter as the man stalked closer and closer. At this distance John could make out the handsome features of his face, a broad nose, defined cheekbones and high forehead. He was at once strong and delicate.

A heat began to burn deep within John’s chest.

“Your hair and posture suggest military. You walk with a cane, but you have yet to sit for a rest, suggesting that your limp is psychosomatic, which further suggest the events surrounding the injury were traumatic. Your face is tan, but you have no tan above your wrists.”

John quickly peered at the sliver of skin peeking out from his shirt cuffs.

“There are only two places an American solider could get a tan and a war wound at the same time: Cuba or the Philippines. Though I must say, what you are doing working for the society pages instead of running your own medical practice is beyond me.”

“Who said anything about medicine?”

The taller man was now standing a few feet from John, smiling.

“You did, when you spoke to Doctor Stapelton. That man cannot stand to speak about anything but medicine. The fact that you were able to actively engage him in what appeared to be amicable conversation for an extended period of time suggests medical training. Filed surgeon, most likely.”

John gasped in a shuttering breath and regarded the creature before him, almost ephemeral in the cloud of smoke around his face, as if he could disappear at any moment. Lost to John forever. His stomach dropped at the thought.

“That—was—amazing.”

The man regarded him with a curious look and took another drag of his pipe.

“That’s not what people normally say.”

“What do people normally say?”

“Piss off.”

John released a bark of laughter. What an unexpected and inexplicable creature this man was. After a moment John heard the deep rumbling of his companion’s laughter. The two men gave into a fit of giggles before shaking hands and introducing themselves.

“John Watson.”

“Sherlock Holmes.”

“Pleasure to meet you Mr. Holmes.” 


	2. Bare Knuckle Boxing

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> John needs to let off some steam. So he attends a fight.

John pulled up his trousers and rolled the sleeves on his dingy white shirt. A far cry from the tux of the previous night. He buttoned his suspenders and slipped them over his shoulders. He looked like a laborer. He felt strong.

 _This is what a real man looks like_ , he thought, _not one of those stuffy, soft-handed, good-for-nothing ponces._

As he reached for his tin of pomade he couldn’t help but think of one stuffy ponce in particular. Indeed it was that man’s image which drove him out this very evening. A tall dark haired man who had read his military career in the briefest of instants.

John had been immediately intrigued with the specter, but no more than a moment after learning the his name they were parted. John had been drawn away by Irene Adler, who had decided the journalist should be inside mingling rather than outside conversing with a solitary man.

He hadn’t seen Holmes again that night.

John ran a comb through his hair, slicking back his bright blond locks. He knew that his interest in men, while distasteful in polite public society, was not a deformity and certainly not one he alone suffered. He’d had plenty of lovers in his life, men and women. Since his return from the war, however, any feelings had been rare, but when he locked eyes with Holmes the other night he felt a familiar stirring. 

He fell asleep that night with thoughts of the sinful quick-witted mouth on his prick and woke up as hard as a lead pipe. He was sure that his chance of seeing Holmes again was non-existent. Not only was he completely out of John's league, but John's article would laden with criticisms of the fundraisers opulence juxtaposed to the poverty it feigned to assist. While he wouldn't be fired for such scandal he knew he would be blacklisted from future high-society events.

There was nothing for it. The moment had been there and gone leaving John irrevocably effected. What was a randy man supposed to do?

John considered himself handsome, but knew few women would be willing to go home with a cripple. Even if he managed to spark the interest of a lass, they would likely run in disgust once they saw his shoulder.

That damnable shoulder, mottled with scar tissue, ached every time it got cold and somehow impaired his ability to walk. Holmes had noticed. Psychosomatic. He was a smart ponce at least. What John wouldn’t give to have that smart mouth all to himself for a night.

No. That was never going to happen.

Since no decent woman would have him and his pocket change couldn’t afford the price of professional companionship, he decided on the next best thing.

Bare knuckle boxing.

Not to participate, of course, but to watch. The Irish had brought the sport with them to the states and John had instantly taken a liking. The thrill of the danger. The sound of the impacts. The blood, sweat, and muscle. The raw masculinity of it was a heady mixture of danger and desire for the doctor.

He ran wax through his mustache, curling the tips slightly before donning his flat cap and vest, and heading out the door. His cane, his actual cane, was nothing more than a plain stick of wood with a curved handle. A far cry from the black, silver handled cane from the night before. John loathed the thing, but bore its necessity with quiet grace.

The nearest fight was less than a mile walk from his boarding house in an abandoned warehouse by the piers. Technically the sport was legal, but the gambling that went on was not.

When he reached the warehouse door, the burly man standing in front gave him a stiff nod and moved aside. This was not John’s first fight and doctors were always appreciated at these events.

As he moved into the crowd his awareness was flooded, the smell of dirt and sweat, the shouts of rowdy drunk men, the push and pull of warm bodies as he made his way through the crown. He was nearly drunk on the sensations. 

The ring was nothing more than a baren circle of dirt surrounded by a makeshift wall of pallets and scrap wood.

“Bets! Place your bets here!” A bookie cried into John’s ear.

“3-to-1 odds on The Brick!”

“Who’s the challenger?” John had no intention of placing a bet, but he wanted the lineup.

“The Spy!” The bookie gave him a black toothed grin.

John had hear of The Brick. He was a large Welshman, thicker than a brick wall and twice as hard. John had treated an opponent of his after The Brick landed a sucker punch while the other man was down. He was a prick and an asshole. The man had nearly died.

John had not, however, heard of The Spy.

“Who’s The Spy?”

“New guy!” The bookie yelled over the din of the crowd. “Scrappy. Fit, but not as big as The Brick. Who is, eh?”

John nodded his agreement.

“He’s been in the ring three times now, undefeated. He’s quick. Good at finding the weak spot. That’s why they call him The Spy. Nothing gets by that one.”

When he had the information he wanted from the dirty man John merely turned his back to him and leaned against the wall of the ring.

“Place your bets!” The bookie continued shouting. “3-to-1 odds on The Brick! Place your bets!”

John pulled a flask out of his vest pocket and took a swig. It quieted the burning in the pit of his stomach, the sweating of his palms. He was starting to question if this outing would be enough to settle himself. Perhaps he could pick up a young deckhand at the bar by the docks later. His prick gave a twitch at the thought. 

_Not yet Watson. Hold yourself together._

A few grueling moments of raucous shouting, bodies pushing him side to side, and an empty flask later the fight was ready to begin. The referee shouted an announcement of each fighter.

The two men walked into the middle of the ring and John’s mouth went dry. There was the formidable Brick, large, bald, missing some teeth. He was the kind of man that could drive a railroad spike with one swing of a hammer and never break a sweat.

The other man was tall and lean. Thick for his frame, well defined muscles, but a twig compared to his opponent. He was pale with a wild mop of black curls on his head that hung into his eyes. His features were sharp. John felt a twinge of familiarity.

Neither man wore shoes. Trousers only.

The two men looked at each other, fight in their eyes. John watched as their bodies began warming up. They bounced from foot to foot, rolling their shoulders, swinging arms, stretching necks. The referee shouted the rules.

“Fight until someone can’t get up. Never hit a man when he’s down. No hitting below the waist. Shake hands when you’re done. Have at it.”

They were on each other in an instant. The Brick lunged forcefully, swinging a meaty arm at The Spy’s face. True to the bookie’s telling The Spy quickly dodged and landed a shot to the large man’s kidney. The Brick brushed it off like he hadn’t felt a thing.

They were circling now, fists raised. A quick jab. A quicker dodge. The Brick landed a few punches to the smaller man’s core. He absorbed them, quickly moving out of striking range.

It was clear to John the middleweight was assessing his target. He saw a keen eye rake up and down the other man’s body. John's blood pumped in his ears. His breath was coming quickly. This was what he craved. This was what he needed.

Suddenly The Spy landed a series of jabs and hooks to the large man’s face. Fazed only slightly the heavyweight took a steadying step back.

What unfolded before John’s eyes was a delicate, but brutal dance. The Brick was forceful, but The Spy was quick. Punches landed to faces, to ribs, to shoulders. Each man took their beating and kept dancing.

The crowd was pulsing with excitement. The room hot with anticipation. John removed his hat and shoved it in his back pocket. A few tendrils of his slick hair falling in his face as he cheered every strike The Spy landed.

His heart beat faster as the blood gushed from the large man’s nose. He could feel himself getting hard at the sight of the rough marks on the smaller man’s face.

He was a thing of beauty, John thought. The sleek sinewy body John appreciated in a man and the skilled control of brute force that he respected. 

It was fifteen minutes and one break into the fight and the two men were hugging each other in a masculine display of fatigue. When they broke apart The Brick moved quicker than The Spy. Landing a solid shot to the smaller man’s gut, then a quick jab to his jaw and the middleweight was propelled against the barrier falling to the ground, right in front of John.

John peered over the wall in concern, but no sooner had he hit the dirt than the man reached up to the edge of the wood pallet and began hauling himself up.

Once the fighter was erect John was face-to-face with the object of his desire. Through the sweat, the blood, and the dirt that caked his face, a smile crossed his lips, a smile that John had seen before. The last time he had seen this smile it had been encased in a cloud of smoke on the balcony of Irene Adler’s house in the hills.

“Holmes,” John’s gasped breathlessly.

“Watson,” came the deep rumbling reply as the smile curled into a salacious grin.

Then suddenly there were hands on the man’s shoulders and he was pulled violently back to the center of the ring.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Bumped the rating up to explicit because things will start to heat up soon.


	3. Tonight's Companion

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> John searches for Sherlock after the fight.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I went back and updated/edited the previous two chapters as of a few hours before this chapter was posted, just to clean them up a bit and make them flow better. Nothing has changed in terms of plot, but I would suggest re-reading them. :)

Sherlock was thrown to the ground in the center of the ring. John practically launched himself over the barricade, but Sherlock was on his feet in mere moments.

John watched with amplified enthusiasm and concern. As The Spy, Sherlock had shown amazing skill, but with each blow The Brick landed John could feel his heart stop. Luckily John’s revelation that The Spy was actually Sherlock Holmes did not diminish the man’s skill in the ring.

Still John couldn’t help but hum with nervous anticipation. He pulled his kerchief from his pocket and wiped his face.

Sherlock landed a particularly well placed cross to The Brick’s face that had him buckled over in pain. The chiseled beauty turned to John and caught his eye. John froze, heart beating a war march in his rib cage. Sherlock shot him a stunning, self-satisfied grin.

Suddenly John’s eyes went wide with panic as he saw The Brick rise up behind Sherlock and plant a devastating blow to the back of his head. Sherlock stumbled forward and crumpled at John’s feet, well at the foot of the barricade at least.

John leaned over to assess the man’s condition, but he was already stumbling up. He was a bit wobbly on his feet for a moment, then pinned John with a measured stare.

“Mind if I use this?” Even with the raucous shouts of the room John could hear the depth of his voice. Sherlock gripped the kerchief in John’s hand and, before the journalist could answer, had spun around and tossed the piece of fabric in his opponents face.

Quicker than John’s eyes could take in the spectacle and his brain could process the information Sherlock landed a solid cross the other man’s jaw, while blocking a sloppy jab. An elbow to the face was next followed by a low block to the right and a high block to the left. An uppercut to the solar plexus and a hook to the jaw had The Brick stumbling backward. Sherlock moved swiftly forward executing a jab to the ribs and a cross to the other side of the jaw before mooring a solid kick to the man’s diaphragm.

The Brick fell back solidly, unmoving. Sherlock stood in center ring, triumphant. For a moment the crowd had lost the ability to speak. John had forgotten how to even breathe. Then, washing over him like a tidal wave, a roar sounded across the room.

John stared at the heaving chest of the victorious man. His face mottled with blood and dirt, dark curls thick with sweat, clinging to his forehead and neck. Every vein in the man’s arms were prominent and pulsing.

John’s tongue snacked out across his bottom lip. He had to speak to him.

A group of men had entered the ring to collect The Brick. Sherlock looked down in a scoff as the referee grabbed his hand, hoisting it high in the air, declaring him the winner. Another wave of cheers crashed over John. He could feel the weight of the excitement, the shuffling bodies pressing him tighter against the barricade.

Sherlock gave him one last lingering look and then stalked out of the ring away from him.

_No_ , he thought.

John tried to push his way through the crowd. He had to get to Sherlock before the man disappeared. There was no use. It was too thick with drunks and gamblers that would not be moved.

Without another thought John leapt over the barricade and sprinted to the exit Sherlock had gone through. It turns out that the door simply lead into a back alleyway. An empty alleyway.

_Fuck._

John jogged up and down the alley for a moment, peering in doorways and around corners to see if he could find the man, but he was gone.

Dejected John slouched against a cold brick wall. Running a ragged shaking hand down his face he groaned inwardly, his head sunk low. What had he been thinking? What would he have said to the man anyway?

_I think you look fantastic in a tux as well as beating the shit out of a man nearly twice your size. I was wondering if you wanted to go back to my place and—_

“Hello Doctor Watson.”

_Shit._

Slowly John ran his hand through his hair, trying to slick back the few arrant strands that had fallen out in his previous excitement. When he lifted his head he was met with the sight he had been yearning for all day.

Stood before him, still shirtless, feet now safely encased in rough black leather boots, was Sherlock Holmes. John’s mouth watered at the sight of the man’s bare chest. It was scuffed and dirty. John could see the red beginnings of angry bruises.

“Mr. Holmes.” His voice was heavy.

John licked his lips, wanting to taste those marks, heal them with the press of his lips. Sherlock noticed the hungry look in his eyes. Raising a hand-rolled cigarette to his lips, the tall man leaned toward John. Reaching out he struck a match on the brick wall next to John’s head and gently brought it to his lips, inhaling deeply.

He released the drag with a puff of smoke that reminded John of the first time they had met.

“Good fight in there.” John offered up feebly.

Sherlock arched a brow and took another drag.

“You think so?”

“It was,” he rushed to reassure, establish his earnestness. “It was very good.”

“Is tonight’s fight going to make it in that article of yours?” Sherlock quipped.

Once again John found himself laughing heartily at the mysterious man. How could he be real? Smart. Gorgeous. Masculine. Witty. John ached to reach out and lay hands upon him. Would he ever be allowed?

“Uh, no. Not exactly fodder for the society pages, that.”

Sherlock pulled a wry smile.

“No. I suppose not.”

“Actually,” John supplied, at a loss for anything else to say, but wanting to delay the parting of his companion as long as possible, “I have no intention of writing a standard society article.”

“I hadn’t suspected so,” Sherlock replied, taking another long drag.

“Course you hadn’t,” John smiled wickedly. He couldn’t tear his eyes away from the man’s plump full lips as they wrapped around the cigarette. There was a slight cut on his bottom lip and John wanted desperately to suck it into his mouth.

“Pray tell.” Sherlock’s voice dropped to a scandalous tone as he stepped fully into John’s personal space. “What _do_ you intent to write?”

John could feel his heart pounding, the ache in his groin pulsing with each beat. He could see the other man’s chest rise and fall with measured breathes. The smell of tobacco and sweat teased his senses. He couldn’t decide whether he wanted to melt into the wall behind him or surge forward into the body in front of him.

“I—I—” John stuttered as Sherlock inched closer. Now he was so close that he brushed the shell of John’s ear with his nose.

“You know what I like to do after a fight?” He whispered.

John shook his head minutely.

“I like to find a willing companion.” John felt his knees quaking beneath him. “Take him home and ride his cock into the next morning.”

Sherlock nipped at John’s ear as the journalist let out a shuddering moan. He reached out and gripped Sherlock’s hips, pulling their groins together, finally confident that he was allowed to touch.

“Would you be interested in being that companion tonight?” Sherlock ground their erections together, as if to drive his question home.

John growled darkly, “Oh God yes.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Okay so I totally used the RDJ Sherlock bare knuckle boxing scene as inspiration for this chapter. ;)
> 
> Sorry this has been so long without an update. I have been meaning to post something, but found that I am not super great at updating two fics at the same time. But I had some extra time today so hope you enjoy this one!

**Author's Note:**

> In the late 17th and early 18th century it became common for newspapers to run "gossip" columns run primarily by women, typically called the "women's page" or the "society page". High-class members of society would invite journalists to their parties so they could be pictured in the best of company and show off their wealth and social standing. 
> 
> Stories about working class and poor people killing themselves were also common place as a way to frame the plight of the poor and highlight their wretched lives as "human interest" and ultimately morbid entertainment. 
> 
> In this AU John was a veteran of the Spanish-American War, which first sent troops into Cuba and later the Philippians.


End file.
